


Miria

by transmarkcohen



Series: Miria [1]
Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-05-31 04:56:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15112226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transmarkcohen/pseuds/transmarkcohen





	1. Solidarity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadlinesBreadlinesBlowMyMind/gifts).



She held the dagger in her hands, it lighter than she'd expected. She stared down at it. Noticing how the light glinted off. Soft candlelight bowing its head to the wind in the gleam of the silver. She lifted her head up, closing her eyes, and sighed. Her dark blue dress and the petticoats under it ruffled as she sheathed dagger beneath the velveteen fabric. The sleeves hung off her shoulders and on her neck glittered a silver necklace. A pyramid of sorts, or at least an upside down one-with its chain clearly it could only be afforded by the royal family.  
And her silver tiara on top of her hair. A contrasting pyramid to the cool metal lying against her neck. It shone out among her blond curls, reaching past her shoulders and beyond her head.  
Sarah opened her eyes and looked in the mirror again. Blue eyes. An ordinary face. Without her clothes and jewelry, perhaps you'd never know she was royalty.  
She turned around and headed to the ballroom.

A band was playing a lively waltz-one Sarah was quite familiar with. She allowed herself to smile, humming some of the tune. She crossed the floor to join her parents. Nobles were dancing, twirling, laughing, gliding across the ballroom floor. Chandeliers shone like clusters of stars hanging from the ceiling.  
“Sarah!” her father beamed, opening his arms wide. She came to him and he embraced her, hugging her tightly. Her mother smiled at this. She looked lovely in her violet gown, the neck ruffled in the current fashion. Much like a pie tart. Though maybe Sarah was just hungry.  
“Father,” she said, smiling more. “Mother. What a wonderful ball you’ve put together. Is that the Duke of Northon?” She gestured in the general direction of a man in a cream suit. “He’s recently married, isn’t he?”  
The Queen nodded. “He is. To that wonderful Isabella. Reminds me of our wedding, doesn’t it, Frederick?” She glanced at her husband, light in her eyes. How happy the royal couple was together.  
King Frederick nodded. “Indeed, my dear Rina,” he replied, taking her hand and kissing it.  
Sarah smiled slightly, then turned away from her parents and walked over to the Duke of Northon. Northon was a duchy just outside Sontton, where the palace was located. The princess took his hand, and he looked up in surprise.  
Their eyes met. The Duke wasn’t much older than Sarah-a year older, if that. Sixteen and seventeen. Noble ages. Sarah had taken his left hand. Where the gold band of marriage shone.  
“Hello,” he said. “You’re, uh-you’re the Princess, aren’t you?” He had closely cropped black hair that seemed to stand on its own, and blue eyes resembling the reflection of the sky in the sea. He was strong, a head taller than Sarah, and awkward enough for her to instantly like him. In what way, she wasn’t sure.  
“Yes,” she nodded, smiling. “And you’re the Duke of Northon. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name…”  
“Jacob.”  
“Sarah.”  
Jacob smiled, seeming nervous. Sarah took his other hand, not understanding this. She was confident and didn’t let people push her around. She began leading him into a dance, her shoes having been specially designed for this Winter Festival and not hindering her.  
“So you’ve been recently married,” Sarah continued, not wanting to end the conversation with this handsome Duke. “What’s it like? What’s she like? She must be beautiful.”  
Jacob pointed across the ballroom, at a woman in sharp red lipstick and a black dress, wearing a necklace of diamonds. Her brown hair was piled up on top of her head. “Isabella. She’s from Sonba.” Jacob glanced quickly between Sarah and Isabella. “You’re quite beautiful, too.”  
Sarah felt herself blushing, a trait she could never quite shake. “Oh-thank you-”  
Jacob smiled. “Sarah?” he said.  
“Yes?”  
“I-”  
But he didn’t get to finish his sentence. For at that moment, the doors were thrown wide open and two attackers dressed completely in black were standing in the doorway with crossbows. The entire nobility froze.  
There wasn’t much time to panic. The attackers started shooting, left and right. Isabella was hit and fell to the ground, draining the color out of Jacob’s face. He rushed to her side.  
Sarah looked wildly around. Hit, hit, hit, the King and Queen hit-no!  
She rushed over to her parents.  
“Mother! Father!” She cried.  
No response from her father. No pulse, no sign of life.  
Her mother gasped heavily, laying on the floor, her blood pooling next to her. Sarah rushed to her side and took her hand.  
“Sarah…” Rina barely whispered. “My daughter…my beautiful…” Her eyes were fluttering, much like her life. “If there was only more time…”  
“Mother…” Sarah's hand reached down to the dagger. Rina had given it to her for protection. She had thought she wouldn't ever need it, but given the attack today…  
“With this blessing...I crown you Queen of Miria.” Rina’s hand cupped her daughter's cheek. “Go now. Sarah…” Rina drew one last breath and collapsed.  
Sarah turned, unsure where to go. She saw Jacob and ran to him. Startled, he looked up and grabbed her hand.  
“We have to go. Now. They'll be back any moment.”  
The two ran out of the palace, past the courtyard, down to the shore of the lake where lilypads floated and frogs croaked in the still moonlight.  
Jacob and Sarah were still breathing heavily, holding tight to each other's hands. They watched as a lilypad floated across the lake. Silent and still.  
Slowly, Jacob let go of Sarah's hand and sat down. He looked over the lake, but it wasn't what he was seeing.  
“Isabella…” he said slowly. Sarah nodded and sat next to him.  
“I saw,” she replied. “My parents…”  
She leaned her head on Jacob's shoulder.  
The two of them sat, breathing, thinking that they weren't safe here.  
“We’ll have to leave the kingdom,” said Sarah, and in a few days, they did. Sarah and Jacob ran away to disguise themselves as peasants in another kingdom, and they were married in a few years.  
They also had a son-Mark.


	2. Sheep

The chill wind blowing through the two-room house woke Mark up immediately. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, not wanting to get up this early. What time was it? 4:30? He swung his legs out of bed and into his shoes that sat on the floor. He grabbed a somewhat damp towel from next to the bath, wrapped it around his shoulders, and walked out. 

Mark’s parents were still fast asleep in their own bed. He was usually the first one to go out, if not the first one to get up. He-

_ Shit.  _ He cursed in his head and ran back inside to grab a lantern. He grabbed one and lit it quickly, the flame inside hissing to life. He ran back out.

And went to go herd the sheep. 

It might have been a boring, restless life for some, but Mark enjoyed it. He liked not having to worry about grand schemes or political outrage or anything along those lines. He could stay among the sheep, the scent of wool clogging his nose.

And the scent of manure.

Mark noticed a sheep that was wandering somewhat away from the group, cursed under his breath and ran over. “C’mon,” he muttered. “C’mon, come back inside…” It wasn’t listening to him, so he gently grabbed the wool and steered it back to the stable.

He stayed out for a bit longer, petting the sheep and thinking.

Yeah, he was okay with this. 


	3. Cagi

Roger had always loved causing mischief. Chaos. But nobody had expected it on such a level.

He snuck through the streets of Narru with his partner in crime, Qine. They’d been joking and talking back and forth to each other the entire time they’d been on this mission.

“N’ du elis sia gohil ca nomme ret?” Roger snorted. “Peshni.”  _ Do you think they know who we are? Idiots. _

Qine shrugged in reply. “Sia go’n hil. Et Capa vaui solm etu millie-qua us reas ip chie sio.”  _ They can’t know. The Boss wants only the best-that’s why he chose us. _

Roger sighed. “Ya hila. Du n’er’ta muita  _ plesrata  _ bi ya.”  _ I know. You don’t have to  _ explain it  _ to me. _

“Altel, ya n’.” _Clearly, I do.”_ _  
_ “Rease n’ du n’ cag, hiertlo? Ya elisha du vaui bi-eo, ban era ca? Gerropa e fjod?” _Why do you do this, anyway? I thought you wanted to-uh, what was it? Become a baker?”_

It was Qine’s turn to sigh. He turned to Roger, and he said:  
“Quansil.”  
_Focus._

And for Roger, that was the greatest insult of all.


	4. Barrier

The assignment had gone wrong. Roger ran off, trying to get away from it all. He was somewhere deep in the countryside, climbing a hill-he must be in Hassan by now. There was no possible way Prevobia extended this far to the south. He kept running, covered in dirt, and sweat, and blood. Up the hill, until-

“Mihova, tehu! Tehu dal ulpo, do jul?”  
Roger paused, frowning, panting. He peered over the hill. It was a boy-he’d been speaking Mirian. In...Hassan? Maybe the countries were close, but Cagi was definitely more widely spoken. Roger tried to remember the Mirian he’d been taught when he was younger. He hadn’t practiced it in years.

Mi...my. Hova sounded like hofe. Hoof. My hooves? Tehu was-come! Dal. Um. Ulpo was inside. Do was you. My hooves, come dal inside, you jul? My hooves...come inside, you will?

Roger pumped his fist in the air and whispered “ _Yes!”_ quietly to himself. It wasn’t an exact translation, but it was close enough. Why was the boy saying hooves?  
Roger walked towards him. They looked about the same age. “Hi,” he said. The boy swiftly turned around and jumped back in fright.

The two stared at each other. Then, Roger stuck out his hand for the other to shake. “Are you alright?” he said in Cagi, doing the best to keep his accent out of his voice. _C’mon, Roger. Hassani voice. You ARE Hassani._

“I-I…” The boy looked down at the ground for a second, embarrassed. He looked back at Roger. “I am doing fine,” he said. “I do not speak Cagi well. I am sorry. I still am...I am still…” The boy said a curse Roger didn’t understand. Maybe it was in Mirian. If he was Mirian, that would explain his oddly lyrical accent that made it sound like he was singing. “I-learning.” He grinned up at Roger, maybe hoping for praise.

“That’s okay,” said Roger. “Look, um-I’m a bit lost, and I see you have a house, and could I stay there?”

“You not know my name.”

“Do not,” Roger corrected. “I’ll excuse your poor grammar, you said you’re still learning, but I will help you. Also, yeah, it would help to know your name.”

“Mark.”  
_Definitely_ Mirian.  
“Cool. I’m Roger. Do you have people you live with?” Roger tried to simplify his Cagi so Mark could understand.

“Parents. Come. _Parloas Mirias_?”

“Dun myen.” _A bit._

Mark nodded to himself. “Good. I teach you Mirias and you teach me Cagi.”

“It’s Mirian in Cagi.”

Mark rolled his eyes in annoyance-the Mirian version-and took Roger inside the house.

 

“Mim! Dun jenta fol tehun iqi!” Mark called to his mother and told her that a person had just come here. Roger made him somewhat wary, but the way the sun shone on Roger’s golden hair made Mark’s heart melt. And he could speak a bit of Mirian. So he must be trustworthy.

Sarah came out of her room, wearing her usual peasants’ clothes. “What’s this?” she asked Mark in Mirian, eyeing Roger.

“He was coming up the hill and needs a place to stay. I thought we could help him.”  
Sarah nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. “What languages does he speak?”

“Cagi.”

Sarah turned to Roger, and pointed at a symbol on his nearly all dark clothing. “What is that?” she asked him in Cagi.

Roger reached up to feel it. “Uh…”  
“A symbol of your political party?”

“...Yes.”  
“Very well. This should be a safe place for those who seek political asylum. How long do you need to stay?”  
Roger rolled his eyes, a sign of uncertainty in Hassan.

Sarah frowned and muttered to herself, quiet enough that neither boy could hear. Eventually, she addressed them both with simple Cagi. “Very well. You will stay as long as needed, but while here, you will be a part of the house. You will help with chores and you will help Mark with his studies, especially Cagi. It will be very good for him to have someone his own age to practice with.”  
Roger couldn’t help but grin. “Thank you so much!” he told Sarah in Mirian, as it was coming back to him.

Mark was looking at Roger and thinking of just how _amazingly handsome_ this person was. No, he wouldn’t regret this one bit.

  



	5. Goddess

The table was set with dinner, which was some kind of meat and a mix of plants on the side. Mark’s father had come to join them. His parents’ names, as it turned out, were Sarai and Jahub. (Or so they told him.) Mark’s father had agreed with his wife to let Roger stay, and in all honesty, he couldn’t have been more grateful to them. Jahub had been at the market in Turo earlier, since it was Market Day for any local Letahis or Multes. He looked down at his plate, trying to figure out what animal the meat came from, and trying to pretend he didn’t notice Mark staring at him all through dinner. This family wore simple clothes, lived simple lives, and ate simple food.

Roger ate a bite of the meat and immediately tried not to spit it out. This didn’t go unnoticed. “Uh, excuse me,” he said, looking up and trying to redeem himself. “Do you-uh-do you have any _saln?”_

The three who were not Roger looked at each other, nearly shocked at his request. “We are Letahi,” said Sarai gently. “It is food of the gods. However, given this, we do have some in storage, and given that we are trying to respect others’ religious beliefs, we’ll give you some if you really want it.” She went off and grabbed some, then came back and gave it to Roger. He ground the white granules onto the meat.  
“Thank you,” he said shakily in Mirian, then quickly switched back to Cagi. “Also-what meat is this?”

“ _Beala,”_ Sarai replied. “A gentle beast that roams the mountains around here. It is harmless, yes, but they have been nearly overpopulating recently. And they are quite delicious-though I see you do not think so. Where are you from?”  
Three pairs of eyes were on Roger. “Uh-Jirel.” It was an island quite far from the three kingdoms that mattered to any four people, and he hoped he would get away with lying.

“Eo dkoj deh duwe Jirel?” asked Sarai.  
“Is,” Roger replied, breathing a sigh of relief. Sarah had asked him if he spoke Jirel and he’d replied yes. Thank the gods he’d had that brief Jirel class back in Narru.

“As you noticed, we also take care of sheep,” Sarai said as she sat back down at the table, watching Roger with the salt. “They’re sacred to the Goddess.”

“Riras?” Roger asked. Sarai and Jahub gasped and Mark nearly choked on his food, and stared at Roger-this time out of horror.

“Do net cadi cet’an! Net, net-aiud mi, Diugosi!” Mark made a strange symbol among his rapid Mirian. Roger stared at him, confused, and shocked, and a little ashamed. Of course. You weren’t allowed to say the name of the head Letahi goddess, unless it was in the proper context and with the utmost reverence. This was neither.

“I…” said Roger slowly. “Sorry. I-I forgot. I haven’t met a lot of Letahi people.”

“Clearly,” Sarai said flatly, taking Roger’s empty plate. “You may sleep in that corner.” She pointed.

“Okay,” said Roger quietly.

This would be a rough place to stay, if this kept happening. Hopefully, Mark would guide him through it.

Plus, Mark was cute.

 


	6. Festivals and Secrets

Three weeks had passed. Roger was having a dream about a star class he’d taken in Narru, when an earthquake shook him awake. No-not an earthquake, just Mark. “What is it?” Roger groaned sleepily.  
“You are not Letahi,” Mark said, also sleepily, sleepily enough that it made him grumpy. “You take sheep in. Today is holiday. _Kerasen_. We do no work, _Kerasen_. We celebrate. Gods are pleased. Up you.”  
Roger sighed. Mark’s Cagi had been getting better, but it was difficult for him to remember grammar when it was morning. “Time is what?” Roger asked in Mirian, almost mocking Mark. He wasn’t going to have Mark start putting Cagi to shame.  
“Five in the morning,” Mark responded, clearly sounding relieved that the conversation had switched back to his native language. “Get up. You will take the sheep in. Today is a-”

“Holiday, I know,” said Roger, starting to climb out of bed. “ _Kerasen_. What a weird name.”  
Mark gasped. “You would dare insult the Goddess’s plan for the universe?”

“You really believe in that _coconolav?”_

“I don’t speak-whatever language that was.”

“Jirel. It means bull-”  
Mark pushed Roger off the bed.

 

After Roger had taken the sheep in, as Mark instructed, he walked back into the house. He still wore his typical black, though it had become dusty from doing work and chores. Sarai and Jahub were busy preparing for the midday feast, cooking continuously.  
“Is work...not considered cooking?” Roger asked Sarai in Mirian, struggling since he also had language problems when he was sleeping, like Mark.

Sarai glanced at him. “I’m assuming you meant that the other way. No, cooking is not considered work. It is fun. Good to do. Come help us. Any actual work we have, you will do, since you are not Letahi.”

Mark had been pretending to read a book. He was in reality watching Roger. He asked the other boy, “What religion _are_ you?”  
“It’s...complicated,” said Roger.

“You are from Jirel, no?” asked Sarai. “Do you not practice Jireli?”

“I mean...I used to. But I’ve been wondering about the universe lately, and...I don’t know.” Roger smiled half-assedly. “I don’t think I could ever be Letahi, though. I like salt too much.”  
The room was quiet for a minute.  
“Salt is not the reason you believe in something,” Sarai finally said.

 

The midday feast came eventually. It was large, and smelled wonderful, and Roger’s stomach growled. Sarai gestured him over to the table. “Come, eat,” she said, smiling. “Kerasen is a day of joy and acceptance. All are welcome at this table.”

Roger sat down next to Mark. “What is it this time?” he asked.

“ _Veha, sanu,_ and _jowor.”_ Mark pointed at each thing as he said its name. Veha was the meat, sanu looked like fish, and jowor was a green sort of plant Roger thought he’d seen in a book once talking about ocean life. But the book had been in Mirian, which Roger couldn’t read.

Roger tasted the meal, and his eyes grew wide.

It was fucking delicious.

 

In the evening, Roger went to bed, and Sarai told him that her, Jahub, and Mark would stay up to celebrate the day further.

Mark watched as Roger walked back next to his bed, and fell nearly immediately asleep. However, his thoughts were broken by his mother calling to him.

“Mark,” said Sarah, “look at me, please. Your father and I have something extremely important to tell you.”

Mark frowned. “I thought we were going to continue celebrating Kerasen.”

“We will. I have a gift for you.” Sarah pulled out a small wooden box and handed it to her son. “Open it gently every time, and it will serve you in its time.”

“What-” asked Mark, but then he saw the inscription on the box. Though it was written in Eldrian, an older version of Mirian, he could still read it. _Open it gently every time, and it will serve you in its time._ More or less.

Mark looked at his parents with uncertainty. “Should I-?” he asked.

Jacob nodded, and Sarah did too, her eyes twinkling. Mark opened the box, and in it lay a small circlet of gold. Mark inhaled sharply. The circlet rested on a pink cushion, shiny and protected from the outside world by the polished wood.  
“I…” said Mark, breathless. What was he supposed to make of this? This was-this was a headdress for a Crown Prince!

Or at least it had been, before the New Regime took over Miria. They ruled the state through an oligarchy. Mark had forgotten the rest, but he knew Miria had had a monarchy before...about seventeen years ago.

“Mark,” said Sarah, her voice gentle, “you are the Crown Prince of Miria. I am the true Queen. Seventeen years ago, assassins for the New Regime attacked the palace and killed my parents, Rina and Frederick. Jacob and I escaped.” Sarah took her husband’s hand, and they held onto each other tightly, like so many years ago. “Put the circlet on.”

Mark did, his head swimming. It fit perfectly. It made him feel...strange. Powerful.

Sarah covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes shining. “Oh, Mark,” she whispered. “You look so handsome...it looks beautiful on you.”

“I…” Mark shook his head. “Mom-I’m fine taking care of sheep.”

“When you become King, you can take care of as many sheep as you want,” Sarah replied. “You will become King. One way or another, we will make sure of it.”  
“How?” asked Mark.

“Take back our land.”  
Excitement rushed through Mark, and he couldn’t help but grin. “Are you sending me on a…a quest?”

Sarah nodded. “Yes. If that’s your way to take back our kingdom, you are being sent on a quest by the Queen of Miria, Prince Mark.”

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, just under where the circlet rested in front of his strawberry blond hair.

“Can I...take someone with me?” he asked.

Sarah thought about this. “You may take Roger,” she said.

“You didn’t even-”  
“There’s nobody else you would take.”  
Mark crossed his arms, knowing she was right.  
“You may take him, as long as you do not tell him the true nature of your quest until you get to Miria. And don’t flirt too much.”  
Mark’s cheeks flushed with a fire. “Mom!”

Sarah smiled. “You’re going to be a wonderful ruler, and you’ll be remembered in history for this. Now, go to sleep.”  

 


	7. Sheep, Part 2

Like so many times before, Mark woke up early and got out of bed. Roger was snoring

loudly on the floor next to him and Mark rolled his eyes. This guy-this amazingly handsome, amazingly annoying guy-was almost all Mark could think about. Regardless, he went out to get the sheep.

He found his favorite sheep first and buried his face in the wool just behind his ears.

“Hey, Roger,” he told the sheep. In all honesty, the animal hadn’t had a name until now, and Mark had just gone with Roger. What a great name.

He looked the sheep in the eyes. “You’ll come with me, right?” he asked it. The sheep

baa’ed in response. Mark smiled fondly and patted its head. “Yeah, of course you will.”

_ Baa. _

Mark grinned. “It’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?” he asked. “I mean...I’m a prince! Of course I’d love to stay here and take care of you and get married to Roger and have our family herd sheep-” Mark stopped, a blush creeping up on his cheeks yet again. “Uh. Forget I said that middle thing. I meant. Live forever with  _ Roger the sheep. _ ” He patted Roger the sheep’s head. “Because I love you and sheep are the best animals ever. I mean all the others we tend to eat. Anyway. A king can change the laws. I’m gonna make it so that everyone must have at least one pet sheep.” Mark scratched behind Roger the sheep’s ears. 

_ Baa. _

“Yeah,” said Mark. “Just wait, this is gonna be  _ awesome.” _


	8. A Quest

    They left that night, under the cover of darkness and with very small bags. How had Mark convinced Roger to go with him on this quest? He’d simply said “Travel. You come with me.” And Roger had said “Okay.”

Mark’s parents couldn’t risk paying for a wagon driver, so Mark and Roger walked. Mark’s sheep followed them, and Roger couldn’t help but think it was surprisingly quiet as they walked on a winding mountain road under the stars.

Roger glanced at the sheep. “He is...not talkative,” Roger attempted in Mirian. He meant that the sheep wasn’t noisy.

Mark glanced at Roger. “No,” he answered. “Rog-this sheep is not noisy. And he doesn’t talk.”

          “You were about to say my name?”

There was dirt on this path, and Roger could hear both of their footsteps. His ears were even trained enough to hear the sheep’s breath. And if need be-they would be able to hear danger. But neither boy thought it would come upon them…

Mark was glad for the dark, that Roger couldn’t see his cheeks flush pink. He began to speak in what little Cagi he knew and had studied. 

“Sheep-names,” Mark said, already struggling. He pointed at the sheep. “Sheep, it has name-Roger. Before you. You-named after sheep. Not around.”

          Roger stopped suddenly, turning to Mark with a grin spreading to his ears. “Oh my god, did you name the sheep after me?” He asked.

          Mark stomped his foot, crossing his arms. “Net, net, net!” He said. “Du-dar-dea in tena, halret! Plosti!”

          “No, no, no,” Roger translated. “You are-you are-“ He frowned. He had no clue what  _ tena, halret,  _ or  _ plosti  _ meant.

Mark smiled smugly. “You speak not Mirias,” he said in Cagi, excepting the one word. “You are not my country.” 

Roger grumbled, but that was the end of that. Even though he knew that wasn’t what Mark meant, for some reason, ‘you are not my country’ hurt something deep inside him.

They continued on through the night. 


	9. You’ve Got To Be Kidding Me

    A month had passed. Not much had progressed. Mark and Roger had reached the city of Telmana, on the shore of Miria. They’d rowed a canoe over. That...had been interesting. It had sprung a leak. They’d argued.

They’d just kept  _ arguing  _ on this trip. Except for yesterday. Mark and Roger were staying at an inn in Telmana. They’d been inside their room, arguing about something in a mix of Cagi and Mirian. Both were getting better at the language they were learning. But of course they weren’t perfect.

“This is what?” Mark asked, annoyed, picking up a sock Roger had left on the floor. “We are not animals. Give it to the laundry.”

Roger was laid back on the bed, eyes closed, thinking about that ultimate assignment. He opened his eyes. “No,” he said. “Better if we don’t leave tracks.”

Mark threw the sock at Roger, where it landed on his face. He flung it off, amused. “You’re cute when you’re angry,” he said. “Must be why I like you,” he added under his breath.

Mark stopped. He looked at Roger, scrutinizing him under his glare. “What?” He asked. 

“Uh-nothing,” said Roger. “Nothing.” 

“You like me?”

Their eyes met. Roger, for the first time to Mark, looked vulnerable. “I mean-not that...way-well-yeah-“ 

“You are...handsome,” admitted Mark. “It is okay. I like you.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” 

“Are you gay?” Roger asked.

Mark frowned. “What is that word?” He said. “We do not have that word. I like you. Like a married couple likes each other. You are pretty. Your hair is pretty. It is like the sun and gold bars. And-and yellow fish.”

Roger sat up. “You’re flirting with me?”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Roger murmured. “Mark...can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” 

They kissed. Roger turned Mark around until he was on top on the bed. They were still kissing. Roger managed to separate from Mark for just a bit. “Is this okay?” He asked. Mark nodded. He was smiling. 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Okay.”

They were kissing again. Kissing, and kissing, and…

Oh, gods, it was wonderful.

 

Later that night, Mark was asleep in their bed. Roger was awake. Why had Mark convinced him to come?

Whatever. He’d still manage the job anyway.

He snuggled tighter under the blanket, thinking that he’d keep Mark far away when he had to assassinate the Heir of Miria. 


	10. Emperor

    The young page who was assigned to deliver the message to the emperor was out of breath as he ran down the gray cobblestoned streets. He held it tightly in his hands, his palms sweating, the parchment practically cackling. But he’d ended up just in front of it. A utopian palace. Something out of a dream world.

He approached one of the guards in front of it and bowed to them, his knees touching the ground. They allowed him entrance. He climbed up the golden staircase shining in the sunlight. 

On the top of the staircase there was a gigantic pair of intricately carved doors. The carvings were art dating back to thousands of years previous, to some of the first leaders of Marater. Far before it became an empire or even a strong nation. The page stated his name and his business and the doors silently swung open, revealing an expanse of darkness. The boy stepped into the darkness. It swallowed him up.

 

Inside the throne room, the Emperor sat on the royal throne. Intricately carved, much like the door. The Emperor wore robes of gold that hung down past her feet. She surveyed the room strictly, one hand tapping on the throne’s cold armrest. Her eyes landed on the page. 

“Bring the boy up here,” she said in her heavy, somewhat archaic Marateran accent. She crooked a finger and the boy ran forward, stumbling, almost tripping over his newly given heavy dark robes that confirmed his role as a member of the Court. 

He knelt in front of the Emperor. “Yes, your majesty,” he said, not daring to meet her eyes.

“Give me the message.” 

The boy produced it from the folds of his robes and handed it to her. She read it quickly, her neutral face of displeasure quickly turning to a frown, then a scowl, then somewhat outrage.

“That outrage!” She frustratedly proclaimed. She threw the paper down on the floor and one of her servants scrambled to pick it up. “Davis thinks he can get away with anything, doesn’t he? He’s off gallivanting-off on some  _ quest  _ with some  _ boy  _ he’s sleeping with-wait.” The Emperor’s eyes flickered around the room again. “Give that message back. Now.” 

The message was given with hasty, rushed force. 

“He says this boy is on some sort of quest…” she somewhat mumbled, though with the acoustics in the throne room, the entire Court could hear her. “.....he wasn’t supposed to tell Davis about it, but he did….and- _ oh.”  _ On the Emperor’s face appeared a wicked grin. “Do you all remember the land of Miria? The ones who call us  _ Prevobia,  _ that disgusting name?” The Court nodded in agreement as she stood up. “Well. This quest-this is one that the Heir of Miria is sent on to prove they are a worthy ruler. And that simply proves that we have found him. I’ll have Davis kill this prince, and as soon as he does, we can swoop in and take Miria from that idiotic New Regime.” Mimi’s grin only grew wider as she spoke. “It will be ours. Long live the empire!”

“ _ Long live the empire!”  _

 

__ Mark and Roger, meanwhile, were in an arduous situation with a supporter of the New Regime that they didn’t think they’d get out of alive. 


	11. New Regime

     Mark and Roger stood before the Agent of the New Regime, frozen in terror. The agent grinned down at them in glee. “Well, well, well,” he said. “You two. You’re working undercover for Hassan. Lucky I  _ caught  _ you.”

“Uh,” said Mark. “Uh.” He understood what the Agent was saying, but he really wished he hadn’t. He and Roger had just been going about their business, traveling out of the seaside town of Telmana on their way to Ahuj, when this New Regime agent had seen the symbol on Roger’s shirt and stopped them. Roger the sheep stood there, unsure what to do. 

“What is it, boy? Sheep got your tongue?” The Agent laughed. He was holding both boys up by the shirt collar, grinning down menacingly at them. “I should report you to the Leader. Have your heads in a minute.”

Mark kicked his feet futilely. Roger glared at him, mouthing  _ Be quiet  _ in Cagi. 

“Don’t insult my sheep!” Mark yelled. “Things people can’t insult are my sheep, my boyfriend, my parents-“ 

**_Thump._ **

The Agent had dropped Roger onto the ground, onto his back, and grabbed Mark around the throat. “If you don’t shut up, little flea,” he said angrily, “I will kill you right here.” 

“No!” said Roger, managing to scramble up. “That’s my job!” 

_ “What?!”  _ said both the Agent and Mark (the Agent had dropped him, as well, out of shock). Mark stared at Roger, horrified. 

But it was too late. Roger had to come clean. 

“I am not an agent of Hassan,” Roger began, “but of the emperor of Prevobia. And she...she has assigned me to assassinate the Heir of Miria.”

Mark grabbed onto his sheep, his face growing paler as he stared at Roger. He was terrified. 

“As you can see,” continued Roger, tears almost coming to his eyes, “the Heir is right here. I planned to...I planned to bring him here all along. The Emperor says she wants to strike up a deal with the New Regime.” 

“And that is?” Asked the agent.

“Surrender to her or die. Of course, you could let the Heir get away, but do you really want him to defeat the New Regime and for that tyrannical monarchy to be in power again? The Emperor will provide you with everything you could ask for. Even a country of your own, that you can rule as your own, as long as she gains control of Miria.” 

“Tyrannical!” Mark exclaimed. The sheep  _ baa’ed  _ as Mark held tighter onto his fur. Was he going to die right here?!

The Agent looked at Roger, then at Mark. “Well, then,” he said, “what are we waiting for? Let’s kill him now.” 

“No!” Said Mark. “No-I-Roger!” He was crying by now. 

“I’m sorry,” said Roger. “I really...I really did like you. But if I don’t do this, I’ll die.”

“No,” sobbed Mark, taking in gulping breaths. “Don’t kill-don’t kill me-please, Roger-I’ll make a deal with your Emperor-anything-please-“ 

Roger shook his head. “You’re in the New Regime’s hands now.” 

The Agent leaned in to kill Mark.


	12. A Few Broken Promises

    The Agent was looming over Mark, grinning down at the pale, small boy quaking under him. His hands reached toward Mark. He was overwhelmed with the excitement of being the one to kill the New Regime’s most wanted person. So overwhelmed, in fact, that it slowed down his time to kill. 

Mark’s hands frantically searched the ground. Dirt. Dirt, dirt... _ ow.  _ His hand scraped on something metal.  _ Yes! _

__ He grabbed onto the metal piece and ran his finger over it. There were letters. Words. Holy shit. That meant... _ holy shit.  _

“Wait!” Mark cried. The Agent stopped, confused. Mark lifted up the piece of metal and read it. “Hasli ulgen avfeil plet, olto ini asa det.” Mark didn’t entirely know what it said, except that it was Old Cagi written with the Mirian alphabet and he could read it. The metal piece-it had a few twists and curves on the ends but beyond that, Mark didn’t know what it was, maybe an attachment to something-seemed to glow with a faint blue light.

The Agent’s hands started to glow, too. “What’s happening?” He cried as they shrunk and shrunk and the light spread across his body.  _ He  _ was shrinking. Mark was grinning. He wouldn’t die today! He clung onto the silver piece, at least he thought it was silver, well, it was silver in color- _ why the fuck was he thinking about this right now?  _

He clung onto the silver piece for dear life. Roger and Mark both watched as soon, the Agent shrunk until nothing was left but a tiny black lizard. 

Mark stared at Roger. For the first time, the older boy looked...vulnerable. 

The lizard skittered away.

“You...tried to kill me,” Mark began, standing up and brushing the dirt off his clothing.

“No-Mark, I-“ Roger’s breaths were shaky. “That used to be my mission but it’s not, now, I swear. I was using it as a cover-“

“Bullshit,” Mark spat. “You’re coming with me. I’m taking that damn New Regime down and then I’ll figure out what the fuck to do with you.”

“Mark-I’ll help you-“ 

Mark gave Roger a sideways glance as he pulled on his hand. “Doesn’t make any difference. Also, I don’t think it needs to be said that we’re broken up.” 

“...Okay.” 

Eventually, somehow, by some miracle, they’d reached the palace. Mark swore his knuckles were going to fall off if he held onto the piece any longer, but he didn’t dare let go. 

There were no guards in front of the palace.  _ I’ll have to fix that, _ thought Mark, not bothering to realize how odd it was. There was, however, a serving maid going into the kitchens on the left side. 

Mark ran up to her, pretty much dragging Roger along with him. “Excuse me?” He called, fiercely applying his Mirian accent. 

Roger thought that Mark would make a wonderful singer. But obviously if Mark did, in fact, become a singer and never king, Roger wouldn’t live to see it. He was sure Mark would execute him.

The maid turned around. “Yes?” She asked. She frowned as she looked at Mark, then gasped. “You are the son of the Queen! Oh my goodness…” She ran up to Mark and hugged him, who fiercely hugged back. This fierceness was a new feeling for Mark. But it felt comfortable. 

“I am the Crown Prince,” said Mark, words tumbling out of his mouth at this point. “I’m here to take our kingdom back.” 


	13. All is Fair In Love And War

    The maid led the two into the palace, and Mark told her to keep Roger with her. She let Mark go off on his own, thinking him able to complete the quest that would affirm his stance as king of Miria.

    Mark raced through the halls, trying to be hidden by the shadows. For some reason, nobody seemed to see him.

    He realized he had carried the circlet that was to be used as his crown with him all the way. Maybe if he put it on, more servants would recognize him and join his cause.

    He put the crown on. Suddenly, he got a fearsome headache. “Ow!” Mark yelped, not bothering to be quiet. It seemed to tug at something.

    The metal piece in his hand did the same. It gravitated toward the crown. That same strange glow from earlier appeared. Mark gasped and took the crown off, holding it up next to the silver.

    The two yanked themselves out of Mark’s hands, who watched as they melded themselves together. The words were in the front. The crown floated up and gently settled itself on Mark’s head again, who thought he could hear a voice.

    “You’re home,” said the voice. “Welcome back, King Mark.”

   

    Mark raced to the throne room. No guards in front either. He knocked three times on the doors.

    Miraculously, they opened. And Mark stepped into a cavern of darkness.

    Inside, fifty people-including servants-were in a semi-circle facing a throne in the middle. The throne was gold and would’ve glown once, but now it was dull. Sad. A man dressed all in black sat on it, his color much like that of the chair-dull enough that he looked like all the life had been sucked out of him twenty years ago.

    He’d been talking, but he stopped when he saw Mark enter. The crown still glowed with that ferocious blue light.

    “Who do we have here?” The man said, straightening up.

    “Mark,” said Mark. “And I think you’re sitting in my chair.”

    The man laughed. “So you’re the Crown Prince!” He replied, amused. “This is my chair now, little boy.”

    “It’s not!” Mark yelled. “I was sent by my parents-“

    The man smiled cruelly and beckoned a finger. “What parents?” He said as two people stepped forward, each holding a body of one of Mark’s parents.

    Mark gasped. Stepped backward. Took a shaky breath.

    Inside him, anger surged up. It grasped his heart. Anger at this man. Anger at the Regime. Anger at Roger. Anger at everything. Anger at having made Roger the sheep follow him, instead of leading him. And Mark _ran_ at this supposed Leader of the New Regime, using all his strength, and he tackled this Leader. His hands grasped his neck and the Leader laughed.

    “You won’t be able to strangle me!” He said.

    “Good, because I’m not going to!” Mark yelled. “Riras, lend me what I need to kill this traitor!” A brilliantly crafted sword appeared in Mark’s hand, molded to fit as if he’d owned it all his life. With one swing, he killed the Leader of the New Regime.

    And the light returned.

    Flickering torches were illuminated along the walls of the throne room. The Leader’s body dissolved to dust, its true form. Mark swept this off the chair and sat down, looking out at his subjects. He was regal. He was the King of Miria.

    All around the throne room, the people bowed. They’d all been former helpers for the King and Queen. They were willing to pledge their allegiance to the King who’d helped take their kingdom back.

    Mark noticed two people in particular on the left side. He pointed at them. “You two,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact, “come here.”

    The maid stepped forward, dragging Roger along. Roger didn’t dare look up from the floor.

    The maid bowed and then looked at Mark. “Your Majesty,” she said. “I am Glennys. I have been waiting years for the return of the royal family, and I fully pledge my loyalty to you.”

    Mark smiled. “Thank you, Glennys,” he said. “But right now, I am more concerned with _him.”_

Mark didn’t notice a messenger come into the hall, and a servant quickly explaining the situation as he listened to the message. Mark turned his eyes to Roger, his voice icy cold, his gaze hard.

    “Look up,” he hissed at Roger, who did, pathetically. “You. You tried to kill me. You are a traitor and have committed the worst kind of treason.” He turned back to Glennys, who was glaring at Roger. “Take him to the dungeon. Execute him in three days’ time at noon.”

    “You!” Glennys snapped at Roger, grabbing his ear and dragging him by it. “I should have known not to trust you! The King would have brought you with him if he believed you to be trustworthy.”

    “Ow,” muttered Roger. He looked back at Mark as Glennys dragged him out of the throne room, mouthing _I’m sorry._

Mark simply flipped him off.

    The messenger who had come in earlier quickly ran up to the throne, panting. He bowed as fast as he could and looked up at Mark, his eyes wild. “Sir,” he said. “Sir, I-I have a message.”

    Mark nodded to tell him to go ahead.

    “The Emperor of Prevobia-she-she’s declared war on us.”

    “Has she?” asked Mark. “Well, if it’s war she wants, then it’s war she’ll _get.”_

 

  



End file.
